Sarah’s sisters in clonehood have followed wildly divergent paths, and she’s most horrified to learn that she’s related—in a way—to a soccer mom. But so much great fiction relies on the fact that darkness thrives in suburban spaces, tucked away under formica countertops and embedded in the DNA of tupperware parties and potlucks (and even church bake sales). Orphan Black exploits this trope fully as does Moriarty’s addictive thriller. The titular husband has a secret rivaling many in Orphan Black, and I challenge you to read the first page and not feel the urge to devour the whole thing. (Binge watching is, of course, a cousin to binge reading).